by Scott Hunter
It was a brilliant blue October morning, the colours declaring autumn to be in full flow, but summer was clinging to its coat tails for all it was worth. Scarcely a breeze, the sun surprisingly warm on his face, Moran closed his eyes and thought about a young girl – an orphan at first, but, in time, a stable childhood, a burgeoning musical talent, the inevitable years of rebellion, the striving for success, the finding of it, but then … a brutal termination. By the hand of another, or by her own, in a final, flamboyant, death-defying (literally) statement of futility?
But why here? Why this suburban backwater? Michelle had had no connection with St Swithun’s – domestic or religious. But maybe that was the point. No connections; no clues. No logic. No traceability for the ‘assistants’, or perpetrators as Moran preferred to think of them, because, whether Michelle had put them up to it or not, they were still guilty of a crime.
The cemetery, he noted, was well kept, the grass close-cut and springy underfoot; Gruffydd was evidently a thorough groundsman. It was Gruffydd who had reported the crime. Would anyone else have spotted it? How obvious had the disturbed earth been? Had Gruffydd witnessed the crime, delayed the reporting of it for some reason? Be that as it may, Moran reserved judgement. Better to let the man speak for himself, let his guilt or innocence make itself clear.
Moran’s reverie was disturbed by the revving and abrupt cessation of a motorcycle engine. More flower deliveries? Press? No … Moran squinted, shielded his eyes against the bright sunlight. Raised voices directed his attention towards the lych gate. Ah, someone demanding entry. Probably his interviewee. Moran walked quickly towards the kerfuffle. As he drew closer he could see the uniformed officer arguing with someone. ‘I’m meeting the policeman here, see? I work here. Haven’t they told you?’
‘It’s all right,’ Moran interrupted. ‘My fault, constable. I should have mentioned that I was meeting Mr …’ He realised no one had supplied him with the gravedigger’s surname. ‘His name’s Gruffydd,’ Moran explained. ‘The groundsman.’
‘The body specialist, he means.’ Gruffydd grinned, all trace of animosity apparently forgotten. ‘I put em in nice and neat, like.’
‘Very well, sir,’ the PC said. ‘In you go then.’ To Moran: ‘I’ll be here if you need me, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ Moran held the gate open. ‘I think we can manage.’
Moran had half-imagined a lumbering, Hagrid-like figure to go with the name but nothing could have been further from the truth: Gruffydd was a short, stocky man in his early thirties, shaven-headed with a barrel chest and short, muscular arms. His nose was pierced by a silver ringlet, looped through his septum and joining one nostril to the other, the overall effect serving to enhance Moran’s impression of restless, bovine energy.
‘DCI Moran, is it?’ Gruffydd held out a meaty hand.
Moran took it and felt the coiled power of the man in the returned squeeze. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘I was hoping you could tell me a little more about your recent discovery.’
‘Bad business.’ Gruffydd shook his head as they walked along the path towards the LaCroix site. ‘See, I wouldn’t have spotted it normally.’ Gruffydd paused at a gravestone, bent and reunited some loose chippings with their parent, a white rectangular slab butted up to a small inscribed headstone which read: ‘Joseph Fordyce – Died 20th February 2012. Never forgotten.’ The grass had all but grown over the stonework and there were no signs of recent maintenance.
Forgotten too soon, more like…
Gruffydd had straightened up. ‘Can’t keep on top of it all, that’s the truth of it, Inspector. I can keep the paths clear, tidy the leaves, fix the quick problems – but the trouble is I’m spread too thin, see? I’m wanted here there and everywhere. Usually at the same time.’ He laughed. ‘People won’t stop dying. That’s the thing.’
‘So what time was it, roughly, would you say, when you realised that something was amiss?’
‘Around eight in the morning, I reckon. I was just passing this spot right here, because my lockup’s over there in the corner, look, and I happened to glance across at the fence.’ He pointed to the site with a stubby finger. ‘I don’t know what drew my eye, because I wasn’t expectin’ to see anything – maybe a squirrel, or something, it might have been, I don’t know. So I went over to the fence and saw the line of turf, like.’
‘So you wouldn’t normally have walked across this particular part of the cemetery.’
‘No, see these are old – very old – graves; we’re in the oldest part of the cemetery. You can see the headstones, look, half-swallowed by the ground.’
Moran looked down at his feet. Indeed there were just a few faint protrusions from the earth, lichen-covered, canted to one side in several cases, as if the earth itself were slowly and deliberately erasing all memory of the mortal remains interred beneath.
‘And it was the turf which gave it away?’
‘That’s right. Good job, though. Someone had been very careful not to let any raw soil show. Quite a professional piece of work, I’d say, except, mind, there was some spoil just on the right-hand side – wasn’t obvious, but maybe that’s what made me go over and look a bit closer.’
‘So, the neat job was compromised by someone else, d’you think? Someone who wasn’t as adept at covering their tracks?’
‘It’s possible, Inspector, that’s all I can say. I’ll leave the sleuthing up to the professionals.’ He grinned, showing a stunted line of yellowed teeth.
‘Do you ever come up here after dark?’ Moran asked the question casually.
Gruffydd shook his bullet head slowly from side to side. There was a small tattoo on his neck which Moran couldn’t quite make out. ‘No, not at all – once or twice in the past when the old boot rang me at some ungodly hour saying she thought she’d seen something in the graveyard – snoopin’ around like, you know?’
‘The old boot? I take it you mean the verger?’
‘Blackheart, yes, that’s who I mean.’
‘Lockhart?’ Moran frowned. ‘Why Blackheart?’
‘Long story, Inspector. She’s a devil, that one. You want to watch her, right enough.’
‘She seemed perfectly civil to me,’ Moran said.
‘Oh, she puts on a good show, she does that.’
‘You’ve not seen eye to eye?’
‘I won’t go into detail, Inspector; I’m not one to badmouth anyone, look. But when that one wants something, she usually gets it. No matter what. That’s all.’
‘One last thing,’ Moran said. ‘Did you, by any chance, receive a phone call from a journalist recently, and maybe let slip a little information about this incident?’
Gruffydd touched the side of his nose. ‘Welsh lass, right? Well now, Inspector, what can I say but that we look out for each other. Know what I mean?’
‘I do, but may I remind you that, right now, any information relating to Michelle LaCroix’s death is confidential. Sounding off to the press might well compromise our investigation.’
‘I hear you, Inspector.’
‘Good. We all want the same thing here, don’t we Gruffydd? To get to the truth.’
‘Absolutely.’ Gruffydd blew into his hands. ‘Anything more I can help with, you just let me know, Inspector. Glad to be of assistance.’
Moran watched the gravedigger make his way to the lych gate, where he paused for a brief banter with the PC before firing up his motorcycle. The rhythmic thrum of the machine’s throbbing engine bounced off the church walls and into the stillness of the cemetery, lifting the heads of the handful of mourners permitted access to commune with their dearly departed. One such, a tall figure in a long, grey coat, raised a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun, seemed to shake his head at the disturbance. He glanced across to where Moran was standing and made a dismissive gesture, as if to say, does nobody have any respect any more?
The engine note faded as the bike accelerated towards the main road and silence descended once more, leaving Mor
an with his thoughts which, he ruefully admitted to himself, were comprised mainly of more questions to add to his already full quota. Was it worth disturbing the forensics team, getting an update from the horse’s mouth? No, best not; they’d pipe up quickly enough if they found anything else. Besides, he wanted to touch base with Charlie, let her know he was around.
Moran’s route took him past the plot where, less than a minute ago, the tall man had been standing. Fresh flowers had been laid on the grave, a bouquet of red carnations. Moran read the tombstone’s inscription on his way past.
Ernest William Dugdale d. 5th Jan. 1890
Too old.
Way too old to be remembered by any living mourner…
Moran quickened his pace, gritting his teeth against the stiffness in his leg, banged through the lych gate, looked one way, towards the main road, then the other.
The man had disappeared.
Damn.
Charlie had described the guy in the pawn shop as tall, long coat. It wasn’t much, but surely not a coincidence?
‘Everything all right, sir?’ PC Henderson enquired. He was carrying an armful of flowers, clearing the pavement around the churchyard entrance.
‘Did you see a tall guy come through? Long coat? Hat – one of those, hell, what do you call them? Fedora, yes, like a fedora?’
Henderson shook his head. ‘No sir. Just the two ladies.’
‘You didn’t see him come in either?’
‘No, sir. There’s just been the two ladies, yourself, and the gravedigger chappie.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ Moran went to his car, found his smartphone. Cursing himself for his slowness to catch on, he waited for Charlie to pick up.
CHAPTER TEN
‘I didn’t get a good look at him,’ Moran said. ‘The sun was low, and bright. I remember he shielded his eyes, over the brim of his hat. I glanced back towards the LaCroix grave – I was in two minds whether to chat to forensics and when I looked back, he’d gone. The uniform saw nothing.’
‘Probably came in and out over a wall, through the gardens facing onto the rear of the cemetery.’ Charlie looked up as someone knocked. ‘Come in, Tess.’
Tess Martin was smartly dressed in a navy blouse and dark skirt. No make-up, but there was colour in her cheeks. She looked at each of her seniors in turn. ‘News?’
Charlie pushed her chair back, stretched her legs. ‘The guv might have seen your tall man. In the cemetery.’
Tess compressed her lips, barely nodded. ‘That’s good. That’s really good.’
‘Not so good, because he was out of there like a bullet,’ Moran said. ‘Maybe he had some premonition that I’d join the dots, figure out who he was.’
‘It’s not that we didn’t believe you, Tess,’ Charlie said gently. ‘It was just … unusual, I suppose, that you didn’t get a description, or–’
‘Stop him leaving the shop? Yeah, that’s what you’re all thinking.’
‘He moved quickly,’ Moran said. ‘And he’s clearly adept at disappearing. So, no sweat, Tess. We may be dealing with a professional here.’
‘But who? What’s his interest?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Could be killer or accomplice. Or someone working for them. We don’t have enough to go on, yet. Which is why I’m hoping our pawn man will recover quickly enough to tell us more.’
‘He wasn’t good last night,’ Tess said.
‘You were there at some ungodly hour, Tess. I saw that from your email.’ Charlie sighed. ‘Look, I need you on full strength right now, not sleep-deprived and stressed. Mr Milton is under twenty-four-hour obs, so don’t feel the need to–’
Tess gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Sleep-deprived? That doesn’t cover it.’
‘Your counsellor hasn’t helped?’ Moran asked softly. ‘I’d recommend you ask your GP for a short course of sleeping potion. Worked for me.’
‘I need something a lot stronger than that, guv,’ Tess said. ‘Trust me.’
‘You’re doing fine, Tess,’ Charlie said. ‘I wouldn’t have you on the team if I thought you weren’t up to it.’
‘Sure.’
‘We’re on your side, Tess,’ Moran added. ‘And it’s no slur on your ability, nor on your fitness for duty, that this guy gave you the slip.’
‘Thanks guv. I appreciate it.’
Charlie was watching Tess carefully. ‘So,’ she summarised. ‘Maybe our mystery man was keeping an eye on the forensics team, keeping tabs on who’s coming and going. We have to turn the tables, flush him out, get one step ahead. Right now, we’re at least two behind.’ Charlie got up, went to her window, turned her back and winced as the stomach gripes came and went in waves. She took a breath, turned around to face Moran and Tess.
‘Are we all set for tonight, Tess?’
Tess nodded. ‘All set. I’ve put a team together to watch St Thomas’ churchyard. The Armed Response Unit are on standby if anything goes down.’
‘Remind me where?’
‘Goring-on-Thames.’
Charlie bit her lip, nodded. ‘Bit out in the sticks. Still, our friends have undoubtedly got transport.’
‘Chances are that these lowlifes won’t have much of a description to go on, either,’ Moran warned. ‘It was dark, they were probably watching from a distance.’
‘Sure, but if I can get em, I’m going to get em.’ Charlie folded her arms. ‘Anything they can tell us about that night, so much the better. We just need a bit of luck, that’s all, I–’ Another wave, this time so fierce it made her gasp.
‘Charlie?’
Moran had obviously spotted something was wrong, despite her best efforts to disguise the fact. The room was blurring; Charlie put out a hand to steady herself, misjudged the position of her desk, felt herself toppling, pain burning a line in her abdomen. She was dimly aware of Moran’s voice, Tess kneeling beside her, asking her questions which made no sense.
It was easier to keep her eyes closed, fall back into the darkness.
‘Ruptured ovarian cyst,’ the white-coated doctor said brightly. ‘Nasty, can lead to complications, but we managed to stop the bleeding – that’s the danger with cysts. I checked everything out while I was at it; there’s still evidence of endometriosis, but nothing which concerns me for now. It should all calm down over the next week or so. She’ll be fine; she just needs rest.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Moran said. ‘Presume you’ll keep her in tonight?’
‘Oh yes, for a day or two.’
‘Right. Thanks. When can we see her?’
‘She’s in post-op now, be around forty-five minutes before she gets onto the ward. I’d leave it a few hours. She’ll be woozy for a while.’
‘Of course. Thanks again.’
‘No problem.’ The young surgeon smiled and sashayed away to change, or to do whatever surgeons did after an operation.
Moran watched her go. So young, so skilled.
He was still pondering when he caught sight of a familiar face; Dr Gordon, the stand-in pathologist, deep in conversation with another doctor, a man in his early fifties with senior consultant written all over him. Moran made his way haltingly along the corridor, reluctant to interrupt but hoping to catch her before she hurried on to her next task. Dr Gordon saw him approaching, however, and broke off her conversation to greet him.
‘Chief Inspector. Nice to see you.’
‘You too,’ Moran smiled, acknowledging her companion with a nod.
‘This is Alan King,’ she said by way of introduction. ‘Alan, this is Chief Inspector Brendan Moran.’
‘Pleasure.’ King’s handshake was dry and firm. He radiated confidence and a kind of TV personality charm which Moran found deeply unappealing.
‘You’re in pathology, too, I expect?’ Moran enquired.
‘Not likely,’ King replied. ‘Rarely go anywhere near the path lab, if I can help it.’
‘Alan’s surgical,’ Dr Gordon broke in. ‘One of the best.’
‘Thing is,’ King repli
ed, absorbing the compliment, ‘Morag prefers patients who can’t talk back.’
Moran smiled politely. ‘I didn’t thank you for stepping in so promptly the other day,’ he said to Dr Gordon. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘Not a problem,’ Dr Gordon replied. Her hair was tied back into a single plait, makeup sparingly applied. She was a natural beauty, right enough. ‘I do hope you get to the bottom of it. That poor girl. Awful to think she was suicidal, with all that success ahead of her. If only–’
‘Still unproven,’ Moran corrected her. ‘The investigation is ongoing.’
‘Oh, but surely no one would have wanted to harm her?’ Gordon wrinkled her brow, the action only serving to enhance her Nordic attractiveness.
‘History of drug abuse, broken family, mental instability, questionable associates and so on,’ King chipped in. ‘All points to suicide in my book. Still, you fellows must dot every I, cross every T, right?’
‘Quite right,’ Moran agreed. ‘And we’re very careful not to make assumptions before we’ve thoroughly satisfied ourselves concerning cause of death.’
‘Well, it was suffocation,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ve already confirmed that.’
‘You have indeed,’ Moran said. ‘But the small business of how she came to be in that situation is yet to be fully established.’
‘Some ne’er do well, I shouldn’t wonder,’ King said. ‘Like I said, bad company.’
‘We’ll see,’ Moran smiled at both. ‘Open case, open mind, that’s my motto.’
‘Well, don’t let me keep you, Inspector,’ King said brusquely. ‘Sounds like you have cul-de-sacs to explore.’ He turned to Gordon. ‘See you later – if you can leave those x-rays with my secretary, I’d be grateful.’
‘No problem.’ Morag Gordon lit up the corridor with her Scandi-smile.
‘Nice to meet you, Inspector,’ King jutted his chin. As he moved along the corridor he was greeted by patients and staff alike, all with an attitude bordering on reverence.